


Bloody Sheaths

by WhatICantShowYou



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Death, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Resurrection, Stabbing, Temporary Character Death, Wound Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26558518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatICantShowYou/pseuds/WhatICantShowYou
Summary: “I hate swords,” Jaskier commented with a disgusted expression on his face. “They always leave an icky feeling after waking up again"Jaskier dies and comes back to life over and over again. Geralt fights with the unfortunate interest he takes to the sight of his damaged bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 121





	Bloody Sheaths

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: hey so necrophilia. jaskier dies. the first time it happens, geralt /grieves/, having lost his lover, god it hurts so bad. he's digging a grave when someone gasps awake behind him. "geralt?" "JASKIER!!" and then tight hugs. you can choose the reason why jaskier comes back to life. and then it happens again, j gets thrown against a rock, head cracked open. it takes him an hour to wake. geralt frets for every second, holding his breath, waiting. and jaskier gasps awake. it takes a couple more times for geralt to stop worrying, nearly a year of jaskier dying and coming back to live. and then one day, jaskier gets stabbed (not for the first time) and he looks so beautiful, face relaxed, body limp— his wound is still hot to touch; his ass his dry, and geralt doesn't want to bother with it, but the stab wound is warm and soft and geralt is so fucking hard. tldr, geralt fucks keeps-getting-revived-but-currently-dead jaskier's stab sound and gets off like crazy

Geralt has seen more humans die than he could count, let alone remember, but nothing prepared him for seeing Jaskier’s lifeless body on the ground, his eyes staring up at the sky and his lips still parted in an eternal scream. It takes the witcher a full hour collect himself enough to move away from the bard’s side, tears clouding his vision as he lifts the body off the dirt and carries him to Roach. A few minutes later they are back at camp, Jaskier’s lute leaning against the tree where he had left it this morning, Geralt fighting by the urge to pick it up and slam it across a large rock.

It’s unfair. He had lived for so many decades, yet was the life of the young bard taken instead of his. To hell with destiny and hope, the world was cold and unforgiving, a bitch to those least deserving of it.

With unsteady hands and a blank mind, the witcher digs the man’s grave by the river, hoping the bard hadn’t exaggerated when he proposed his love for the view as the sun was setting the night before. Roach even stalks up on him and rubs her soft muzzle against his hand, offering her condolences in silence before leaving him alone with his task.

“-fuck?” Geralt is taken back into reality by a voice behind him, swirling around to see the bard sat up on the riverbank and brushing sand and leaves off his clothes. He is swearing up a storm, holding his chest tightly where the spell had struck him, rubbing against the sore flesh. “That witch truly had no manners, I was _clearly_ unarmed! What would I had done to her anyway? Sing her to death? I don’t even-... Geralt?”

The shovel was discarded in the sand as the witcher trembled and shook, knees giving out as he watched his sweet bard breathe and chatter. His skin was already a healthier tinge of pink, his fingers flexing and eyes blinking. The was no bounty that would have satisfied Geralt more than the sight of Jaskier stretching his limbs and complaining about a dry throat, no riches would ever compare.

* * *

“Are you sure I even died?” Jaskier had a blanket around his shoulders, wolfing down his meal as the two watched the campfire. Sun had gone down some time ago, Geralt finally able to believe what he saw before him when even his trusty steed interacted with the man. He was back. “I mean, perhaps I was just breathing shallowly? Or the magic made me _look_ dead? Honestly it’s quite rude of you to dig my grave before exhausting all possibilities-“

“Your pulse was gone and my medallion didn’t react to any magic on you.” Geralt tried to sound forceful, tried to deflect the bard’s stupid suggestions with his typical cold demeanour, but there was no bite to it. Jaskier was back from the dead and while he didn’t understand how, he didn’t need to. Not when he could hear his voice speaking just a little too loud into the night, a tune playing in the air as a tune left his lips and his face was illuminated by the fire.

He was happy he hadn’t trashed the lute.

* * *

The fall wasn’t lethal per say, barely three meters and something even a less travel-hardened human could walk away from without making a deal out of it. Jaskier was not so lucky. The monster had swung its tail viciously and thrown the bard in an arch down the side of the platform, his head cracked open on a sharp rock. Blood seeped out over the sun-warmed boulders as Geralt kneeled by his side, begging and crying for the world to grant him one more miracle.

Sure enough he hears the sharp inhale and watches as Jaskier nurses the back of his head with a pained expression, muttering about having hangovers worse than this when the witcher intervenes.

* * *

Miracles keep happening, Geralt genuinely wondering how the man had stayed alive at all before his first death considering he was summing in on a total of twenty six mortalities by the end of the year. At this stage Geralt barely even reacts as his bard slumps to the ground with a sword piercing his torso. The ragged breaths tells Geralt that it punctured a lung, blood welling past the man’s lips before his heart promptly stops. As if not even aware, the witcher finishes the fight before approaching his friend.

A stab wound was nasty business even for a witcher, not an immediate mercy but a drawn out and long process of either bleeding out or striking something vital and waiting until the organs fail. The bandit piercing his lung was at least a kind gesture, he mused, a faster death than others the bard had suffered by a sword.

Geralt sat down by his side as he wiped some of the blood away from Jaskier’s chin, sighing as he moved downwards to check on the deep, bleeding hole in his chest. His fingers trembled the tiniest amount when he opened the man’s doublet and chemise, removing the layers to get a good look at the damage. The trembling only increased as he gently brushed his fingertips along the edge of the parted skin, crimson blood sticking to him as he stroke it. His finger dipped down into the wound but a few millimetres before he caught himself and stopped it, sighing heavily and sitting back on his heels to clear his head.

The witcher wasn’t sure when his newfound interest in the bard’s fatalities had started. Sure, he had always liked Jaskier and his body was one of many wonders blessed upon his life, always a good source of pleasure and indulgence when the meed arose between the two, but he never failed to feel guilty as he suppressed the full-body shudder as he watched the blood and gore drip out from the man in a sticky mess, his lifeless body pliant and soft as it slumped on the ground. He was well aware how messed up it was, thank you, but he couldn’t help himself from biting down hard on his fist to stifle the moans as he spent himself to the vision in his bedroll at night.

There would be at least an hour or two until the man awoke once again, drawing in lungfuls of air into his reanimated body before brushing off the dull ache in his chest and demand a bath to get the grime of battle away. There would be plenty of time for the witcher to take care of the pressing issue between his thighs and wipe the evidence away before the wound even started to heal itself back. The knowledge frightened and excited Geralt in equal measure as he felt the lingering warmth radiate from Jaskier’s body under his palm.

Surely it wouldn’t be too bad? The bard would be none the wiser about what happened to his corpse as he tethered on the edge of life. It was mad, but nothing that would ever come to haunt the human.

In a frenzy, Geralt unlaced his trousers and took out his hard cock, stripping it roughly for a moment to stifle the aching need. He pushed all rational thoughts somewhere unobtainable for the time being, deciding he had no time to ponder the ethics if he wanted it to be done and over with. If he got his fill this once, there would be no need for any sexual adventures for the rest of his _life_ , he was sure. The mere memory would suffice if it came down to it.

With shaky hands he lined up his cock against the wound, hitching his breath as the tip caught on to the torn edges of skin and parted them, sinking his length down into the man like the tightest cunt to this day. The squelch of blood and other bodily fluids cut through the silence of the empty camp, Geralt moaning whorishly at the sound as he seated himself as far as he could. The heat wasn’t remarkable, neither was the pressure. There were no muscles moving, no shudder or life from the man underneath him, but still it was all he could do not to come the moment his cock bottomed out and his balls rested upon the cold skin.

He stayed put for a minute, not daring to move as his member twitched and jerked inside of the man. He wanted to last, at least a few minutes if this were to be the first and last time. _No way_ , he thought with firmly closed eyes as he tried to even out his breathing again, _no way this is the last time_.

Positively losing his mind, Geralt growled as he started up a slow rhythm, pumping his hips in long and slow thrusts as more crimson red welled up beside his cock and dribbled down the bard’s skin. Building up the speed, the witcher felt his orgasm approach far quicker than ever before, panting and swearing as he used Jaskier’s shoulder as leverage to sink even further inside.

Throwing his head back, Geralt came hard inside of the man’s body and moved his way through the blinding pleasure. He stilled with a groan, as far inside as he could, and watched the lifeless body not make a single protest. Pulling out, pinkish liquid followed with his cock, some of his come still in there he realised with a moan as he wiped his cock off on a bandit’s shirt. He used the fabric to clean up Jaskier as well, going out to the river nearby to collect some water for a better rinse so the bard would not wake up to the mess.

He spent the rest of the time palming his cock at the sight, the memory of being inside that lukewarm cavern and stretching it open like a cunt around his massive shaft. He came over the ground once more before he tucked himself back just in time to hear his friend wake up once more.

“I hate swords,” Jaskier commented with a disgusted expression on his face. “They always leave an icky feeling after waking up again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my tumblr @whaticannotshowyou to send prompts and read the rest of my musings!


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